The Long Way Round
by SpartanJuliet072
Summary: Bred to be a warrior, and deceived by those closest to him, The Dragonborn tries to keep a low profile in a world of his making. Two parallel tales of how he got here, and what it will take for him to be what he was born to be.
1. Prologue

The wind blew hard and cold down the empty road toward Ivarstead. Nothing else stirred. The bears and sabrecats that prowled the woods on either side hunkered down in caves and gullies. Ice began to skin over the slower waters in the river. It was a clear Skyrim night. A dangerous night.

The only sounds of life came from the Vilemyr Inn at the center of town. The residents packed themselves in to the small lodge and bundled in close. It was better to sleep on the warm mead-soaked boards than to freeze in their own homes. It was even acceptable to deal with the Stormcloak patrol that hogged the chairs by the fire, and the last barrel of the good drink. Ale would have to do for the rest of them.

Beside the laughing soldiers, the Inn maintained a dull roar. Families stayed close to each other and shared their furs best they could. Wilhelm stood behind the bar. His eyes wandered over his neighbors to make sure they had what they needed for the long night. His eyes darted to the soldiers to make sure they wouldn't make it worse. It didn't matter to him that Ulfric was king. There were plenty of good men still fighting under Balgruf west of here that said otherwise. Many more hung on to what was left of Solitude. He'd put up with a few soldiers for now, but if they tried to hurt those under his roof…

While Wilhelm waited for the soldiers to start something, he ignored the traveler in the corner chair. The man sat with his head down, hood drawn, and cloak around him, sleeping through the Stormcloak's braying. Wilhelm had been uneasy when he'd arrived, but if the man just wanted a chair and dry corner, he'd let him have it. One less problem was good enough reason to let him be. The only other two he watched for were the bard and that drunk Altmer prick who had been renting his one room for the last week.

The bard sang beautifully, and Wilhelm loved watching her work the room, but the elf wore his nerves thin. He paid in advance, always tipped Wilhelm a little extra, but between him and soldiers the Inn would be out of mead long before Spring. The elf always dropped hints that he knew a few, "friends in low places" that could help with that problem. Wilhelm refused. He wasn't going to run to the damned Thieves Guild for mead. They had ale, and ale would do. He hoped.

"Sing another, girl. Or take a seat here," the lieutenant patted his thigh and waved the bard over.

"Another song it is," she tuned up her harp and winked at Wilhelm. He made sure the officer wouldn't act up before smiling back at her. He was glad she decided to stay on after that mess in Riften.

"Our hero, our hero, keeps a warrior's heart…"

But he had to wonder sometimes about her common sense.

"No, not that rubbish. Don't you go singing that song." The man stood from his chair. Wilhelm's hand went to the axe he kept under the bar. His arm was good, and that would have to be enough.

"You said you wanted another song. I'm singing."

"And if you keep singing, it'll be through a broken jaw, bitch. Now change the tune."

"I don't really know another-" the harp crashed to the floor. The lieutenant's fist flew past where she held it before and sailed past her head as well. Before she could escape, he brought it all the way around and held her in a head lock. She pushed against his grasp. Her breath grew shallow.

"Now you've done it, haven't you? Me and the lads will have to teach you what true Nords are like. It looks like you've forgotten if you're singing that song."

Wilhelm tightened his grip. Stendar preserve him, but he wasn't going to let thugs in the king's colors hurt the one good thing in his home.

"I rather enjoy that tune."

Everyone in the inn froze. The families that had been watching from their corners stared in amazement. The rest of the soldiers came to their feet to stand by their leader. Not one of them stopped the bard from leaving his grip. The traveler in the cloak kept snoring.

"What did you say, elf?"

"I said, I rather enjoy that tune. Why did you stop it?" The elf leaned back in his chair, pivoting just enough to face the soldiers. He smiled at them from above his tankard, quaffed the rest, and set it on the table.

One of the soldiers stepped forward.

"You can't be this dense," she said.

"That song's been banned by orders of the king. All mention of The…he's not to be mentioned, by law."

"Going on ten years now, if I remember, but that's the king's law," the elf poured himself the last of his mead.

"Aye," the officer said stepping closer, "it's the king's law."

The elf smirked and drank more.

"The king doesn't rule here. In fact, he seems to be having a hard time holding onto anything at the moment."

Wilhelm couldn't believe it, but the elf sat there and began laughing. He laughed as the soldier's hands went to their swords, and he kept laughing when the lieutenant's fist sent him sprawling across the floor.

"You think this is funny you elven shit?"

"A troop of Ulfric's runts running around like they actually have authority here? Yeah I think that's kind of funny."

Steel boots landed in the elf's gut. The laugh kept going, though it became interrupted by wheezing and the odd cough.

"Who are you calling runts? You're looking at true soldier's of the Blackguard. We are the might of the king!"

At this the elf stopped. He looked up at the soldiers, and then got to his feet. The soldiers looked him over, a mixture of glee and pride and murder filling their faces. Wilhelm believed them. If these men were Blackguard, he'd be no help. He put his ax back down and looked to get as many people out of the inn when the soldiers started hacking the elf to pieces. Maybe if they got to the mill they could get enough timber to the homes so they wouldn't freeze tonight.

The elf began to laugh again.

"Is that really what that burnt face idiot is calling his little troop? Gods, I thought Ralof had more sense than that. And you milk drinkers elites? You lot were barely off your mother's tit at Solitude. Are Ulfric's standards really this low?"

The soldier's stood with mouths agape, trying to figure out how this elf was still standing, and why their leader hadn't gutted him yet. They waited for him to crush this man's head like a walnut, but it never happened. He just asked a question they could barely hear.

"How do you know the commander's name? No one's supposed to know he's even alive."

The elf stopped laughing. He straightened his shoulders, the drink gone from his eyes and stance, and sat down on one of the benches.

"Because, stupid boy, I was at Solitude. So was he," the elf nodded with the last word. Between the soldiers and the fire, the traveler stood. He was no giant, but looked down on the soldier's from underneath his hood all the same.

The soldiers closest to him went for their swords. They drew them just before two daggers drove through their windpipes and put them to the floor. The woman grabbed her war hammer and charged forward. She swung for the head and just missed. The traveler crouched underneath the blow and threw his palm into her knee. The joint cracked and the warrior buckled, screaming in agony as she fell. On his way back up he planted a boot to her neck, and twisted it. She stopped screaming.

Two more soldiers charged him. The first swung his war ax at his chest. He spun, catching it by the hilt and planting the head deep in the other soldier's chest. He grabbed the falling boy's sword and brought it to the ax wielders arm. In one motion, the arm was severed. The soldier looked at his new stump in shock. Blood just began to gush from the wound when his comrade's sword found his neck.

Wilhelm watched the battle with revulsion and restrained awe. The fluid motions of this fighter were practiced, formless, and done almost like they had happened a thousand times before. He looked at the officer as he surveyed his dead. The fight left the man. He shook before the hooded figure.

"Please…please I…"

"Go to your king. Beg forgiveness. He knows what happens to Stormcloaks who I find this close to Whiterun." The traveler began to walk over the dead. He gathered loose gold from their pockets.

"Would you like to make the trip minus a leg? Go!" the traveler said. The words shocked the man back to his senses, and he bolted into the night without his cloak.

Wilhelm said nothing as the cloaked man took the gold from the soldiers and handed it to his bard.

"You're making it a habit of pulling me into your business, Svidi."

"You're not that hard to pull, Eric. You might have the rest of the world fooled, but not me. You still care about us." The man grunted as they looked to the elf. He was rubbing his aching ribs, hands glowing as he did so.

"The old man would disagree."

"This old man will still whip you across all of mundus you stupid boy."

"I should have let you die."

"Then who would put up with your sorry carcass, hmmm? You're getting sloppy."

"I'm tired. There's a difference," he said. The cloaked man walked up to Wilhelm and put a small purse on the bar. Wilhelm picked it up and looked at the stranger.

"For the mess, and a few barrels of Black Briar mead should get here by week's end. A thank you, for putting up with Rion over there." Wilhelm could make out a smile under the hood, but then the man made his way toward the door. The elf followed, walking fine for a man who just had his guts punted not ten minutes ago.

"You should tell Svidi to forget that song. Legends aren't welcome in Skyrim anymore."

Wilhelm nodded and watched as the elf and the stranger walked out into the brutal cold. Once the door was shut and he was sure the pair was gone, he checked the purse. Inside he found not gold, but small and flawless gemstones.

He busied himself. He moved the bodies and asked Svidi to mop up the gore. He built the fire, and cracked open the last of the mead. Apparently he'd have plenty in a few days, so why save it? Besides, he could sure use a drink. They all could use a drink.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: All Unhappy Families…

No child gets to choose their parents. For that matter, no child gets to choose their parent's parents, brothers, sisters, or the slew of kinsmen that make up their family. Still, if given the choice Eric would have traded the lot of them for no family at all.

He grew up on the vast estate of Stormfall, full of its farmers, hunters, and other men and women loyal to his grandfather. Though he was the last heir to the land, he grew up much like the pigs and horses. Many nights, he felt the animals had it better. They were beaten less and slept on softer hay.

He liked his mother well enough, the little he got to see of her. Grandpa Uthred kept her in a cellar bellow the barn. It's where he kept the dogs, but they were hers now, and no one else on the grounds went down there except for Eric. He was supposed to starve the animals. He was supposed to let them turn on each other until there was only one and he supposed whomever that was his Grandpa would kill. They still had plenty of warm bodies in the cellar though. He guessed part of who his mother had been remained in her.

Uthred Stormfall lorded over the vast tracks of wild land along the border between The Rift and Cyrodil. His lineage held a tenuous relationship to The Bear of Eastmarch, but the Jarl's son visited to hunt his lands, and wrestle his sons. He hoped to marry off Sylvia to the boy, but after she beat Ulfric bloody when he got too friendly, Uthred put those hopes to rest. Raising three children as a widower was hard enough without playing matchmaker to boot.

A proud Nord, he raised his sons and daughter to honor Talos and the empire he built for man. While he only ever served in the regional guard, his son's honored him by becoming legates in the legion. His daughter fought her way into the Blades just in time to fight in The Great War.

Uthred's pride rewarded him with two letters from the Legion. Both Skor and Garth died in the streets of the Imperial City. There was no word from his daughter.

Uthred spent his days hunting in the woods. He'd forgo deer and fox tracks. He brought his dogs into the den of bears, convinced it would take big game to get what he was after. Instead, he buried a lot of dogs, and left a lot of bear pelts to rot in the dank dens he found them.

A little over a decade and too many bears to count after the war, hope returned to Stormfall Hall. One of the farmers crashed through the doors looking for his lord. He found him looking at his food, not eating.

"My lord, quick."

"Not right now, I'm trying to eat."

"It's Sylvia my lord. I think she's returned."

Uthred took in the man's words and followed him to the road. There, standing in the tattered remains of Blade's Armor, a bundle on her hip, stood his daughter. She looked tired. She looked like she was ready to be home.

"Dad, a little help here?" The old man rushed to her side. His eyes stung as tears welled up in their corners. He took the bundle from her with one arm and wrapped the other around her. She was home. His little girl was finally home.

When he could tear himself away from her, he looked at the face within the sheets. The features were fair, and the skin a little pale. They were not the hardy features of the Stormfall clan.

"Dad, he's your grandson. Say hi to your Grandpa, Eric."

The baby opened his eyes. Dark green stared up at the man. The child smiled. The old man didn't.

"Say something."

He put his hands to the side of the child's face.

"Dad say something, please."

The cloth pushed away and Uthred ran his fingers over the ears. They weren't nearly as long, or as sharp, but they were there. The ears were pointy. Elf ears.

"They say the child is supposed to take after the mother, but-"

"How could you do this to me?"

Sylvia stared at her father. She reached for her child, but the old man stepped away, holding the babe even tighter.

"Dad, please give me my son."

"Who forced themselves on you? Tell me it was war. Don't tell me you let some Elvish prick welp this abomination onto you."

"Dad, give me Eric."

Uthred couldn't breathe. In one short minute, the last good thing, the only thing we wanted in what was supposed to be a shortened life was brought before him and taken away just as quick. He handed the child to one of his men.

"Take that…thing, and see what you can do about those ears."

"No, you won't-" his hand fell on her fast and hard. Any other life, and the thought of hitting his daughter would have appalled him. Any other time, and he knew the woman would have torn him apart with her bare hands. But now, her beyond tired from the road, and him seeing the elves take one more thing away from him, the last bit of good burned out of Uthred Stormfall. This bitter and broken man ordered his daughter be locked in with the hounds and would become the man responsible for raising his grandson.

Eric hated the old man, but he understood that hatred, even believed in it himself. When he came to Stormfall with his mother, his grandfather's men had tried to trim the tips off his ears. It didn't take. Within a few days, the damned things grew back, and they tried again. Since that time the old man gave up on making the boy appear more human, but Eric didn't.

His grandfather beat the child whenever he could justify it. Feed the dogs too much? Beating. Try to practice with a sword? Beating. Stand in his presence too long? Beating. Long rants about the evil of elves and the Aldmeri Dominion accompanied these beatings.

"Your lot takes everything, because they believe they are owed it. Do you understand boy? Your lot took the empire because they believed they were owed it. They took my boys because they believed they were owed it. They ruined my daughter, forced me to cage her like an animal, and force me to beat you, because they believe they are owed it!"

On nights like this, when Uthred really let the words fall as often as his hand, Eric tried his hand at removing the tips of his ears. He knew they would grow back by morning. He'd tried so many times before, but he had to keep trying. He had to show that he wasn't like them. He was no elf.

These abuses continued until his eighth winter. By then, Eric internalized so much hate for elves, he was ready to burst. He swore if he ever saw one, he'd have his eyes out, and guts spilled on the floor for his grandfather. He'd prove to the old man that they were of the same mind.

Seeing he boy's fury and disdain for his kind, Rion bashed him over the head and bound the boy's hands before loading him in the cart and taking off for Hammerfell.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: On the Road to Hammerfell

The constant clack of hoofs on a stone road brought him out of sleep. His head hurt, shoulders ached, and it felt like he'd been sleeping on his arm for hours. As he tried to sit up, he found his hands were bound.

In eight winters, Eric never left Stormfall, never even went further than the barn. Now the air was too sweet. Too warm. He heard birdsongs that didn't make any sense to him. As he found a way to sit up, he looked over the clapboard siding of a raggedy cart. In the driving seat, a tall Altmer sat looking out at the road.

"Too much to ask that you'd sleep the whole way, huh? Should have hit you harder."

Eric's blood boiled. He found his feet, coiled, and pounced at the elf. He was met with a swift back hand that sprawled him back to the floor.

"It's much too early for that, stupid boy. We're just outside of Bruma. We have a long way to go."

"I'm going to rip your eyes out, elf."

"With no hands, and black eye, I'd say you're off to a fine start."

"With my teeth than!"

The elf pulled the cart over to the side of the road and looked down on him.

Despite Eric's deep-rooted hatred for their kind, he'd never seen an elf in person. Grandfather always described them as lumbering, pointy eared devils with crooked grins, spikey hair, chins perpetually stuck in the air, and glowing red eyes. The creature before him had long hair kept neat in a warrior's braid, and beard that looked like it struggled to grow on his face. His eyes cross between gold and amber.

"You don't lack for spirit, boy. I'll give you that. You'll need it," he said. He turned around and faced Eric. His long legs put his knees above Eric's head.

"Why have you taken me?"

"Good reasons. That's all you need to know."

"Why does the Aldmeri Dominion want me?"

This got a laugh out of the elf. He stood up and walked to the boy. He knelt to undo the bindings. Eric made to bite him, but had his face shoved away. They locked eyes, neither backing down. Eric knew he'd kill this elf, but he couldn't with his hands tied. He needed to be free and figure out what was happening to him. He nodded, and the elf undid his bindings.

"You presume too much, stupid boy. Using big words, you don't understand. Can't help it though, can you?"

The elf didn't wait for an answer to his question. He sat back in the driving seat and watched. The boy rubbed the sore spots on his wrists. Blood began to flow back into them. Soon, he'd be ready.

"I know you're an elf. Elves on a part of the Dominion."

"You're a Nord. So you're a part of the empire?"

"Of course!"

The elf laughed some more and drew a flask from a knapsack by the bench. He uncorked it. The smell of fermented honey filled the air. He drank deep from the flask and sat it beside him. After a moment more, he hopped from the cart and stood in the grass.

"Come on, stupid boy. You still want to gut me; I'll give you a chance."

Eric stared at him, confused, but found his feet and made it to the road. The stones were worn smooth, and the grass felt warm under his bare feet. He didn't get time to enjoy it before the elf tossed him a dagger.

"It's no dueling foil, and you don't know my name, but I haven't cared about ceremony for a long time."

The elf bowed, and before he could rise Eric drew the dagger and charged the bastard. He didn't make it three steps before he was sidestepped, and an elven boot hit his back. He tasted the warm dirt and was less enraptured with the feeling of it than the grass. He tightened his grip on the dagger and got to his feet.

The leaned against the cart, waiting. Eric charged again. Before he'd closed the distance, the elf sparked something between two fingers and sent a jolt through the dagger. The electricity ran up Eric's arm, and he screamed as he fell again.

"Fight me fair! No tricks!"

"There's no such thing as a fair fight, stupid boy. Fighting is about winning, and unless you start dropping these silly assumptions you've been carrying, you're not going to live long enough to be useful."

The elf stood by his side. With one arm, he hefted the boy into the air and tossed him back into the cart. He picked up his dagger and returned to the driving seat.

"I don't want to help you at all. You might as well kill me."

"Boy, this has so little to do with me."

Eric sat with those words as the reins snapped and they moved further along down the road.

They passed a great deal of the journey in silence. Whenever Eric felt he could get away with it, he tried to sneak the dagger off the elf's hip. He tried rushing him, sneaking up on him, and even asking for a rematch. Each attempt was met with a swat on the wrist.

The rest of the time the boy spent staring off the edge of the cart. He'd heard of Bruma before, so he figured they must be passing through Cyrodil. The land of The Empire seemed so soft. The warm air, the gentle rolling hills, it was a wonder it wasn't invaded all the time. From the little he could find out, he knew his mother had served the Empire somehow. At least, she was in the war. His grandfather never talked about it, only yelling that the war took everything from him. It wasn't home, but he could see how people would fight for this land.

They stopped at a small flat meadow not far from the road. The elf tied up the horse, gathered wood, and set up a nice fire. Eric watched it all from the cold boards of the cart. Even when the elf pulled some meat from the knapsack and started roasting it, he kept his distance. He'd fallen asleep when he was awoken by the smell of food in front of his face.

His eyes settled on a chunk of roast pork. He looked around. The elf was back by the fire. He'd never notice. Eric ducked down under the sides of the cart and inhaled the meat. It was better than what he got at home. His belly full, the boy closed his eyes again, and fell asleep.

The morning brought even more travel, and silence between the two. Eric let himself watch the gentle hills and fields passing them along the way. They didn't see another soul. It was past half-day before he broke the silence.

"Where are your red eyes?"

"Hmmm?" the elf put down his flask and turned to the boy.

"Elves are supposed to have glowing red eyes. Are you using some sort of magic to hide them?"

The elf corked his flask and chuckled a little. He sped the horse up over the flatland.

"They don't glow, but you're thinking of Dunmer, stupid boy. Dark elves. Their eyes are more of a deep ruby and can be quite beautiful."

"That's impossible. Elves are ugly and vile creatures. Everyone knows that."

"Because you know everything?"

"Yes."

"Even that I'm not part of the Dominion?"

Eric eyed the man. This was a lie. This was another elven trick being used to force him to drop his guard.

"Believe it or don't, but there is no sense in you carrying these stupid lies in your head without proof."

They sat in silence a while longer. When the landscape lost his charm, he spoke.

"I will kill you, elf. Someday."

"You'll have to learn how to properly fight first. You know Altmer call out the names of the people who have wronged them before cutting them down."

"I don't know your name."

"But I know yours, Eric. For now, you may call me Rion."

The boy slumped back into the wall. He had not intention of ever using that name.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Two Riders Were Approaching

Oleg hated guard duty. More than guard duty, he hated working with Silus. The Imperial bastard always complained about something being wrong with the day, himself, or both. Combine guard duty, with Silus, and the kind of winter day that could freeze a sabre cat solid in a field, and Oleg wondered what he'd done to piss off the head of the guard so much to be stuck out here with this milk drinker.

The man didn't know the meaning of "shut up and suffer in silence." It didn't matter that he was just as cold; Silus's suffering outweighed all those who had suffered before. Never mind the hundreds of guards dotting the borders of Whiterun. His suffering alone was a burden of earth-shattering proportions.

"And all they'll give us is elk jerky, and no bread! You think that's easy for me to move? Gods I haven't taken a decent shit since we got out here."

"Silus, you've told me. You told me yesterday, and I'm sure you'll tell me again tomorrow."

"Yes, but you're not understanding-"

Oleg raised a hand, and both men went silent. Down the road two riders were approaching. It was impossible to tell from this distance, but anyone out in this cold had to be on urgent business or scouting for the king. Oleg knew he had to stop thinking of him as such, but old habits were hard to break.

He nodded to Silus, and the man handed him a bow then grabbed one for himself. They took up positions on either side of the road. Barricades blocked it to all but foot traffic, and two wooden walls on either side served as their cover.

The old soldier waited till the horses stopped. He looked to Silus. The man drew his arrow. Oleg followed suit. They would rise on three.

"Oleg you mammoth turd, get out from behind that wall and point that thing somewhere useful."

Oleg chuckled. He let his arrow ease back to rest and put it back in his quiver. He cleared the low wall and bounded into the road.

"You know, Rion, you could have saved us the trouble and announced who you were. We almost shot you."

Oleg walked up to Eric and Rion, taking time to pat the elf's horse, and taking a wide berth around the black beast his former captain insisted on riding.

Rion stretched in the saddle and looked down on the guard. He cocked his head toward Eric.

"This one wanted to make sure you boys hadn't grown fat and lazy."

"We're hurting out here," Silus waddled up to them.

"You're sloppy. What's your excuse?"

_By the nine, no._ Oleg covered his eyes as his partner launched for he couldn't remember how manyth time about his stupid bowels. One day. One day he would guard the city where days would mean easy patrols along the city walls and nights could be spent at the Bannered Mare. Seriously, what had he done to be sent out here?

"-and I keep asking them to send us something easier on the stomach. But-"

"Eric, may I?"

"If you must."

Oleg watched as the elf hopped off his horse and thrust his fist into the other guard's gut. The punch was shallow, but the look of pain, and then fear that filled Silus's face terrified the Nord.

"Ohhhhhhh…why? Why now?" Silus took off for the trees, belts loosening as he made it off the side of the road. Based on the smell, Silus had one less problem to deal with. Rion got back up on his horse.

"Anything else you need, Oleg?" Oleg faced his former commander.

"No sir. Now that sniveling imperial will focus on the road. I hope."

"See to it that he does." Without another word, the man, (he really was a man now,) nodded toward the barricade. The guard obliged by moving what he could, and the horses passed through single file. When they were gone, he closed off the road and returned to the guard hut and his small fire. After the riders were out of sight, Silus joined him.

"Was that really necessary? Him hitting me like that?"

"Better the elf than the Captain. Rion knows how to hold back."

"Doesn't feel that way to me."

Oleg didn't reply. He watched the road and took steady even breaths.

"You're not ignoring me again, are you?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

Oleg put another log on the fire but did not take his eyes off the road.

"When's the last time you seen him come to town?"

Silus sat across from him. His brows knit together for a moment, and then his face fell slack as he sat back.

"Shit, I don't remember. Years maybe? I seen the elf more often."

"He doesn't like coming back if he can help it. Too many memories."

"So what brings him back now?"

Oleg faced his fellow guard.

"Nothing good."

They came upon the city and started climbing to the main gate. They stabled the horses, preferring to keep a low profile. The Jarl would have put them up in the central stables if they'd asked, but Eric didn't feel like parading through the streets on Shadowmere. If he could get out of Whiterun with the fewest amount of people seeing him, the better.

On their way to the gate, they passed the many new graveyards that lined the way. There were jokes, in very poor taste, that Whiterun was in danger of becoming the next Falkreath. So many new gravestones dotted the climb up to the city. Most of them weren't Nords, but everyone of them heroes. Eric pulled his hood further over his face and tried not to look at them.

At the gate he flashed the Jarl's seal, and the guard let him through. She was new, barely past her 16th winter. They walked into the city.

"She's young," he said.

"The meat head has to make do with what he can get. 'Every able-bodied man, woman, and child that can hold a weapon' he says. The boy is scared he's not smart enough to hold this city, so he's throwing bodies at it."

"That's why you're staying here," Eric said.

He walked through the streets, trying to look straight ahead. Many of the houses were beginning to look like they had before the siege. What couldn't be rebuilt was torn down, and in its place new homes and shops were emerging. Whiterun was growing again, despite the state of Skyrim as a whole. The only reminders were the scorch marks along its walls, and the ruin that was left of Breezehome. Eric sold the rights to that plot back to the Jarl a long time ago. Still, no one touched it. It remained a visceral reminder of the cost of this war.

"You still haven't told me what's going on. I could have met you here. I know you didn't pull me from my nice soft bed at the Black-Briar estate for nothing."

"Need to see if you could still hack it."

The elf scoffed and headed for the Bannered Mare.

"I can still whup you in a fair fight."

"Since when do we fight fair?"

That got the elf laughing. He turned to the younger man and bowed. He then spun on his heel and entered the Inn. Whatever worries Eric had about leaving Rion in Whiterun abated for the moment. A small measure of relief spread through him. It lasted till he faced the stairs and continued his way to Dragonsreach.

Halfway up he passed the restored altar of Talos. Beyond it what was left of Jorvaskir rose under the scaffolding and the sounds of men at work. He remembered hazy nights spent under the hull converted to hall. The laughter that filled its rooms, and the sore lessons he learned. He wanted more than anything to walk up those steps, to feel Vilkas hand him a cup, and to sit across from Kodlak as the old man told him stories from the war and beyond. He wanted Eorland to call him lazy and critique him on how he didn't take the time with the engraving on his swords. He wanted Aela to tug his ear one last time, and to work off a Companion's hangover hunting with her in the woods to the South West.

Eric turned away from the sounds of men rebuilding the home he'd loved most as a boy and jogged up the stairs to see the Jarl. There was no time for memories today. There was no time for memories at all anymore.

"So, you live. That's damn sight reassuring these days."

"It's good to see you too Balgruff," Eric replied.

The Jarl looked up at him from his chair at the far end of the table. When Eric first came to Dragonsreach at Ulfric's request, the table had been buried under breads, cheeses, and meats with even the rare fruit or winter squash. Now the table was buried under maps and reports from soldiers and forts all over the Free Lands. Requests from Solitude sat next to orders from the Guard.

The Jarl looked over each one. From his chair, there was not much else he could do.

"I take nothing for a given anymore. Used to be there were some things you could count on. Would you mind? These are important, but I'm getting cold."

Eric nodded. He moved to the Jarl's chair, took hold of the handles and began to wheel the man to the fire. It was impossible to tell under the blankets, but the Jarl's legs continued to wither. Balgruff the Greater, the man who fought in the Great War and led his city with iron determination during the first half of the Civil War, lay crippled in his keep. His mind was still sharp though, and he took a little comfort in that.

"If you want, I could try again."

"I doubt it will take, but I won't object."

Eric knelt beside the Jarl. He focused, drawing as much magic into his hands as he could hold. During his time in and out of the war, he'd picked up a considerable skill in Restoration. His own wounds healed at the slightest touch. Mortal injuries cleared up and left him tired, not dead. Still, nothing frustrated him more than trying to heal others. He always felt like a failure in this arena.

Light spread throughout Balgruff's midsection. The old man closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth and trying to remain positive. The kid really did try. After what felt like a long silence, the boy stopped.

"The healers at the temple say the spine is severed. It's not going to heal."

"I know, but-"

"Not even you, can do everything, Eric," the Jarl smiled and pointed to the seat by the fire. The boy dropped his hood and settled into the chair.

"I'm glad you still try, but I doubt you came here just to frustrate yourself. What can I do for you?"

Balgruff watched as the young man's eyes avoided his. Guilt hung on his face for the world to see. He understood but wished the boy would stop blaming himself for everything. They needed him back, and he'd remain lost to them till that guilt began to fade.

"I'm leaving Rion in town to watch over things."

"I already have plenty of guards. Ulfric's desperate, but I don't think he's stupid enough to attack in the dead of winter. Even Ralof isn't that eager to see us bleed."

Eric remained quiet.

"Not Stormcloaks then. Excellent, I was getting bored of having only one enemy."

"I promised a Redguard hunter East of Riften that I'd investigate something for him. It's probably nothing, but I have a bad feeling about this."

"And you feel having Rion here will help make the most heavily guarded city in the Free Lands safer?"

"I just want you prepared for anything."

The old man sighed but nodded. With that, Eric replaced his hood, stood, and left the room. Balgruff stared into the fire, letting the flickering flames reveal their shapes to him as they danced above the coals.

"One day boy, you'll understand that you can't prepare for everything. You can't win every battle, and the only way to deal with a loss is to move forward."

With those words to the empty room, Balgruff wheeled himself back to his table, and got back to his work.

The graveyard closest to the city gates held the bodies of heroes and the honored dead who gave their lives protecting the city. For three days Whiterun burned, and for three days its protectors stood their ground against fire and steel. Eric stood at one grave near the front of the yard. He dared not go further.

"You don't visit often enough," he heard from behind him. Coming down the road in heavier armor than the other guards, Farkas took his place next to his former shield brother.

"No way to speak to the dead. They're just gone."

"Maybe, but there are plenty left living who it would mean a lot to if you stopped by, said hello."

"It's good to see they're putting you to work."

Farkas grunted. He'd been made the Captain of the Guard years ago. He still felt it went to the wrong man, but there was nothing to be done about that.

"Jorvaskir is coming along. Not sure how I feel about it being a guardhouse, but there are good people under its roof again."

Eric remained silent.

"There are plenty of them that used to follow you. They're just waiting for you to return to follow you again."

"I don't lead armies anymore Farkas. I was too young when I did, and I just can't now," Eric continued to walk down the road.

"Will you at least come around more? For her sake?"

No answer.

"She'd hate to see you like this, Eric. This is no way to honor her. No way to honor any of them."

Farkas watched as Eric disappeared into the stables, and then rode off on Shadowmere into the night. He sat on the bench he'd built beside the first row of tombstones. He looked on their names. Vilkas had been the brains out of the two of them, but his brother had managed to teach him enough of his letters. It was a minor miracle, and crucial to his new work. The work his brother should have been doing.

He looked at his brother's tombstone, and then Aela's, Irilith's, Lydia's, and the names went on. In the back corner a small patch of Morrowind Tulips bloomed as the only marker for the body buried there. The flowers were enchanted. Eric saw to it himself. No cold would ever touch them.

"We can't get through to him. I'd give anything for you to talk some sense into him like you used to."

With those words to the dead, the Captain of the Guard headed back into the city walls.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: When in Rihad

Eric knew nothing of geography, but he could feel when they crossed the border from Cyrodil to Hammerfell. The air grew hotter and hotter with each passing day, but in Hammerfell, there was salt on the wind. The sea filled his nose, and even traveling with an elf couldn't kill his sense of wonder.

On either side of the cart, lines of travelers wove their way in and out of the city. Their dark skin contrasted with their bright eyes and cheerful smiles. Their robes made Eric feel under dressed for the first time in his short life. He'd only ever known his rags but wondered at how soft those linens must be.

"Don't stare, stupid boy. It's not polite."

For once, he listened without complaint.

Rion guided them towards the port. If smelling the sea set his mind wandering, the ships captured him body and soul. Long ships from all over the Empire docked here, offloading goods from across the continent and beyond. The mast of an Imperial Warship sat high above the rest. He felt the burning urge to climb to the top and see the world from above the harbor.

"They say all Nords are sailors at heart. I've seen too many of your kind puke overboard to believe it, but you seem to have some seawater in your veins."

"They're beautiful." Rion looked at the boy. He really did look like her when his face wasn't scrunched up with hate. He needed to remember that.

"Aye, they really are. Come, we're expected."

Rion tightened the reins, and they took off deeper into the harbor. Eric kept the first time he saw the sea throughout his childhood and deep into the war. It became a bright patch in his memories when things grew grim.

They stopped in front of a low-lying house on the outskirts of the harbor. Here the homes were old and in need of repair. The people stayed inside or moved from doorway to doorway. Eric lacked anything to compare it too, but he felt in his gut what kind of place this was. Rion tied the horse off to a crumbling pillar and waved the boy to him.

"Someone will take the horse and cart."

"Someone may try, stupid boy," Rion said. "And I pity the fool who thinks they can get away with it."

They passed through the door and down a flight of steps. Where the air outside was hot and humid, the rooms they walked through were cool, and musty. Eric felt the ocean leaking in through the dirt and stone. He began to keep track of how far down they were going, and how quick he could escape.

"How do you know no one will try and take the cart?"

They kept walking. Deeper and deeper into the earth, the corridors narrow, and everything was illuminated by torches. It felt like a tomb.

"Because, no one around here would dare steal from their prince."

They came into a cavern. At its center was a pit, and all around it sat beds, smithies, and even a small kitchen. In the pit a Redguard man moved across the sands towards two trolls. He held two scimitars, one in each hand, and they followed him like a whirlwind as he danced between both monsters. Eric heard stories of trolls from the eves in the hall when he was supposed to be cleaning. The men talked about them being a death sentence, how lord Uhtred came upon one once and barely survived. Seeing the man in the pit slice them at will seemed unreal. The display didn't last for long. Both trolls soon lay dead at the man's feat.

The Redguard climbed out of the pit and walked toward them. One of the men working in ramshackle kitchen tossed him a towel. He caught it, wiped his face, and continued walking towards them without missing a step.

"Enriarion Adorin, High Elf Bastard Extraordinaire, and someone who owes me quite a bit of coin the last time I checked. Come to pay up?"

"Dina, come on, I thought we were square. I helped you come out of the scrape in Elsewyr with most of your good bits intact. I figured that's worth a few…thousand septims."

Eric watched a smile break across the Redguard's face. Rion held his arms wide open, ready to embrace the man. Eric never even saw the blow the put the elf on the floor. The sight him laid out and nose bloodied filled the boy with terror and joy.

"No, but now I'll consider the debt repaid."

Dina helped Rion stand and dusted the tall mer off. He then looked at the boy.

"Dinahan al Rihad. Rightful ruler of this fair city, and unfortunate associate to this miserable creature."

Eric remained silent. Throughout the entire trip, Rion never mentioned why he'd been abducted. He only got half answers and vague, "you'll see's." Now, standing in this underground arena, he had to wonder if he was meant to be sold to this prince as sport, or worse.

"I've liberated this fine young lad from an abusive home. The boy owes me but doesn't do me very much good as he is. I thought you could train him up a little."

"His manners could use some work. You sure sword skill is the best use of our time?"

"I suspect he's never held a blade. We have a lot of ground to cover. Decorum will have to wait."

Dina continued to look over the boy. Eric felt small under his gaze. Whenever Rion yelled at him, or he was beaten back home, he could look his aggressor in the eye. He feared no one, no matter how hard they hit. Now though, under the eye of this Redguard, it's like his eyes found his fear and pulled it out for all to see. Then the man surprised Eric. He smiled.

"Across the pit, and down the stairs. I'll find you in a minute."

Eric took a few steps in that direction, looked back, but the man and mer only waited. He turned his back on the two and headed towards Jin.

As the boy walked off, Dina leaned close to his old friend.

"Am I crazy, or is that Sylvia's boy?"

"You're crazy, but right."

Dina shook his head. He watched the boy disappear down the steps. He thought back to the girl he knew during the war. The kind heart, the stubborn mind, and easy laugh all came back to him. It was a rare thing to see during the war, and an even rarer thing on the front lines.

"And those ears…" he looked at Rion, but the elf just shook his head.

"So is this an official action, or are you just looking after a…kid of a friend?"

"The Blades are gone Dinahan," Rion cracked his neck and looked toward the pit. "All we have left are our friends."

With that, both men moved to the edge of the pit. Training the son of Sylvia Stormfall would prove interesting to say the least.

Eric stood before the second most beautiful thing he'd seen in his whole life. The ships above may have had his soul, but what lay before him held his eyes. Before the door to the pit lay a vast armory of sharpened steal. Axes, curved swords, long swords, and even war hammers lay before him. Many were longer than he was tall. Simply, it was beautiful. Sitting in its scabbard by the wall, a sword just shorter than him waited. The hilt had hints of blue in the wood, and the steel shone even in the dingy arena. He knew he had to hold it.

"You're getting ahead of yourself."

Eric turned around. Dinah walked past him, grabbing his collar on the way and bringing him into the center of the pit. Looking across the clay, Eric couldn't tell what was the dirt and what was blood. On the far side, two men were hulling off the bodies of the trolls. It dawned on him that this pit was filled with death.

"Let's see your stance."

Eric didn't move. He looked at the man, knowing if he could kill two trolls without taking a scratch, there was little hope for him. He needed to do as he was told. His body still didn't move. After a great deal of effort, he did find some words.

"You haven't given me sword."

"And?"

Eric balled his fists and took a deep breath.

"If you're supposed to teach me sword skill, shouldn't I have a sword?"

Dina said nothing. He took a few large steps and was standing over Eric. Without warning he gave the boy a quick shove, putting a hand on his back to keep him from falling.

"Check your feet."

He looked down.

"You dropped your right foot back to catch your fall. Listen to your body. It's telling you that's your strong leg."

Dina took a stance beside him. He looked down at his own feet, and then to Eric. The boy copied his stance, and Dina continued.

"All sword work comes from the feet. You cannot cut down an enemy if you are out of position. You cannot cleave a beasts head if you only use the strength of your arm."

Dina's foot lashed out at Eric's side. He tried to catch himself but failed. He got back up and was hit again.

"A weapon is an extension of your body," he got kicked again. "If you don't have control of your body, you will never have control of your weapons." This time it was a shove. Eric didn't bother getting up again.

"And if you quit," Dina picked him up off the ground. "You will never have control of yourself."

"Why don't you give me a weapon and see if you can kick me around like this."

"If you'd listen," Eric charged. He punched at the man's stomach but caught nothing. He fell to his face and didn't get back up.

"…you'd understand why I'm not going to give you a weapon."

Eric heard the muffled steps walking back toward the pit door. Tears welled up in his eyes. A month and a half on the road, and he'd never landed a shot on the elf. Now he'd be stuck in this pit, a plaything for a Redguard, and for what? What was the point in teaching him how to fight?

"Get some rest, child. We start again before sunrise." Eric didn't move. He closed his eyes and fell asleep right there with the blood and dirt.


End file.
